Of Sick Loves

Once again we come running to the threshold of the unknown. It is like a solid gateway to something uncanny, almost dead burden that we may or may not want to carry. And those burdens are sick loves–the syndromes we never wanted and yet we get them and have to carry them on. The sickness which does take us out of our misery for a short while–only to leave us profoundly alone, dis-interested and in a haze. And yet we chose to clothe ourselves in the same attire–because of this familiarity. Since we only knew how to be familiar with dark shadows which are always there. And the clouds which follow us around–because why not? And it is a burden–to be constantly sick and without a remedy. Because not everyone is lucky enough to get a remedy. And often–remedies available to us are not what we actually want. Often remedies are the actual maladies. So we think–what if we leave our sick loves untreated–what about it then? Maybe they will spread to other areas, other places, other distances. Because we have this fear–of abandonment–and abandoning. We had been abandoned so much that we cannot abandon–especially the untreated wounds and the maladies. SO we carry on these sicknesses and learn to love them and cater for them and fall into a cycle of remorse. And it is a profound burden–to feel remorse for a lifetime. And sick loves are burdens. That is why we cannot let go off of them because we have been so accustomed to carry burdens that we do not know what we would do when we have none.

And in the end–we open the heavy iron gateways and try to make a run for it.

Ring of Fire

And we were tired–of running in circles and falling down the same rabbit hole over and over again. The tepid blue and those flickering city lights in a never ending loop were never meant to be taken seriously because they only instilled nostalgia–one which we erased a long time ago. And yet we both sit here–looking at empty screens which scream to us with so much emotion which translates to silence.

In all the trust–or the lack of it–all we do is run around, faltering words–which are just words. They mean so much and yet they mean nothing. One can change water into wine–and then stare at it because we never wanted wine. We just wanted to do a magic trick. That is how things happen–how we sell ourselves for a dream which reeks of a stale death.

That is how it is—we sell ourselves, until no one can afford us. Until we run out of ourselves.

That is when we realize–there are no longer any butterflies. They all went away because butterflies do not come on rotten flowers. How quickly did they move on–they do not stay and linger.

And under the water–we thought we would breathe. We thought we could! And thus, we dived and splashed but when it was time to dive deep–that is when we drowned. And to come up to surface, that is the real art. But who is kidding who!

And the lilies all wilt–because they were meant to. So do we–because we are meant to. And in our broken down walls–we live and linger on. Never letting anyone in–the ones outside can see everything–yet we never let them in and we do not know the reason as to why.

And the skyline–it left its ugly marks which were beautiful and we must stop now–before the skyline takes us. But I see how you recoil–as if you are stuck in a nightmare which makes you suffocate–as if you are caught and trapped. But it’s just a dream, it will be over and soon you will be free.

And I will be here–fighting for finality.

And we were tired, we are tired. Of running in circles which were perhaps never meant for us. Perhaps they never will. And the blue, everlasting commotion with flickering city lights—will be there. It will be only thing here. It always will be–it always was. We are tired, because we were charged. And that is what it is.

Kaala Saanp, Black Snake

Who are these people? Do we know them at all? All the strangers who we do not know and all of those who we do! What are the conversations we have–with all those meaningless words and empty emotions? And what is this weight–that pulls us all down, into a bottomless ocean–yet we cannot even sink? What are these questions and where are the answers? Are there any answers at all?

You cannot put all your life into words, all our experiences into pictures, all your feelings into songs. And you should not. Things move upward–and then they stay there and they fall into place. That place does not exist–but in thought.

We are all prisoners of our own shells, our walls are weak–to others and we think they can hold up. We think we want people to break them but we just want to run away from everything. People do not understand that. Because they have their own walls–and they are prisoners there. And some run around in circles–they stop for a while, linger about and then they disappear–to be completely forgotten.

Memories are the worst—they are fickle. People are the second worst–they are weak until they are strong. Moments are the third worst–they happen all the time.

A gentle wind is always brewing and simmering somewhere in our minds where a sole Willow Tree stands alone in the golden fields and under a silver sky which keeps changing its shape. And far away from the Willow Tree, a tall jaded Mirror is placed–overlooking the nothingness. It has a long and deep crack–or maybe that is the reflection of the broken vacuum.

The Willow Tree has many places to go, yet it cannot. The Mirror has much to see, yet it cannot. The sky wants to be golden while the fields want to be silver–and neither can change their color. There is a stillness there, the kind which makes you breathe in for a while, taking in the silence but when you breathe out–all you have is a suffocation within the whole body.

He would know–for that is where he would often go when he wanted to learn how to fly. They all laughed when they heard he wanted to learn how to fly–for he had no wings and more importantly he had nowhere to go. But he kept failing. And after every try, he would have to go back to the dismal and tragic town where they all jeered and sneered at him, where he did not belong, where he was the stranger–for he was an outsider but he was the blind King of that town as well. And in the hollow walls of his dusty room–he would sit in a corner wearing his scepter, looking at the door because he figured that is where he can escape. He looked at the windows, because they brought in orange light every day inside. And he would hear only two voices; one of that mongrel dog and the other would be his own–laughing. And he would sway back and forth because he did not want to hear it.

But when he was by the willow tree–he would feel alive forever, even though he wanted to take his pain brushes and color the sky green or maybe blue–because in his hazy memory, he often recalled the sky being blue. But little did he know–he was never going to fly, for he was just not meant to, for he was blind–in his eyes and his heart was blind and he had no soul. Because he was a wooden tapestry draped in black scales which made him look like a black snake. And he was frozen in various moments which he did not even know existed.

So he was doomed–to his dusty room, with a door and a window and a scepter which he wore and he could hear all the faces laugh, scoff, jeer and sneer at him. And in this doom, he waited to turn into a shadow of an outsider–who belonged nowhere and to no one. And in his memory, the sky was blue and in his memory, he was a swan. In his memory, he would often glide–and laugh and dance. But he was a frozen tapestry–and he knew nothing more. SO he would sit under the Willow Tree, which had nothing to say to him and go stand in front of the broken Mirror which overlooked nothingness and try to see what he looked like. Because in his memory, he looked like you.

Hum Tum

Would you like it if you met yourself outside of you? Would you like yourself? Would you talk to yourself? Knowing everything about this other being that stands close to you–knowing the thoughts, the deep dark secrets? The broken dreams and the hundreds of graveyards you carry within yourself?

Now imagine if the two of you ran around each other–deflecting each other and then finally–away from each other. You want to merge into one but they hold you back with chains and you can not fathom anything anymore–you cannot understand the disillusionment which prevails in the disoriented and macabre surroundings because it seems that you have seen it all through a screen before.

But the two of you linger outside of each other and this is no imagination.

And you both walk away–in despair and in a hallucination of bright white lights and rivers made of cushions of pink threads and a sky made of golden silk. But that is what it is–a hallucination–because there are little children floating giddily in mid air bleating ‘You know it never stays the same’ at you like fairies.

But you both know–it never stays at all…

Now when you enter the opposite ends of some Holocene wonder ebbed in fragile glass–you both remember the multitudes of vacant memories all piled up as debris–but it is not your fault. Because you both can clearly see yourself as one touch starved child running amuck with the silver horses at the edge of the sea. Or the love famished fox–when it stood alone and stared deep into the green bushes of the lush jungle. Or when the people–like clouds would cease being clouds and turn into dusty rooms where no one could enter and no one could leave.

And you both remember the clowns when they gathered around and sang you happy birthday and there was no one else there but balloons and candies and cake. And in the tragedy of simplicity you both can see all the times which were, are and will be– but pulled away from each other.

The sparrows in the air hover–and tell you that they see you–that you both are still not magnificent and you are both still a long way from each other. There is a Watcher watching you and it is silent. And thus–you are silent.

And you both remember touch–all kinds of touch–good and bad–taken and given–forced and longed–and neither of you are magnificent. And miles away—there is still a hollow sense of nothingness.

And so you both come back to where it all started and see that people are dancing with feelings and singing around in a virginal glory–and they all cry because they can feel so much of everything that the weight of the world crushes them beneath and they are out of breath. And both of you stand apart from each other–watching it all, and you have seen all this through a screen before. And you both who are denied each other–try to merge as one–cannot decipher any of it, because on the edge of reason, nothing remains.

So you give one last look to each other–your own selves–a look of knowing, of understanding, of deception, of flawed love, of shadows and you both know. One of You disappears in thin air while the other one of You–has never been more alive–so it walks away in a half.

Closure

Who knew closure could be a phone call, late at night with a stranger! Names, we had none and faces we didn’t know of each other. Yet it was closure. From what–it wasn’t intercepted. And to me, it was like coming out of a machine and watching a show at a theater. In these dismal gory days. When death roams around. When there is distance. When there is silence.

Entangled knots are hard to undo, especially when you are the one who tied them together. Because when you tie them, you make sure they aren’t loose.

There was no music–only a mark which I left myself. And soon it will fade. Like the words of Closure, which I do not remember very much. Just like the words I forgot to say then–on the phone call.

And we are all tourists–passing by. And we go to a place–and empty it inside out. Tourists cannot live in a city for long. When they do, they become permanent. And tourists of all people know, there is nothing permanent.

I hadn’t waited for this closure, yet I never knew that it was one I needed the most. Because feelings cannot be fathomed. And there are sick affections. They are the worst.

Maybe he did wait. Once or twice—I never asked, I never bothered because I didn’t care. I still do not. Because if I did–I would never recall it again. Because if I do not recall it now–I will never forget it.

The voice–reminded me of someone I knew. But I never asked. I didn’t want to.

What did we talk about you ask! Only the most absurd things. But he tried telling me something–hidden in words he was careful about. There was a denial, a despair–perhaps. Or maybe not. Maybe I have become so addicted to despair that it is all what I can see. And you see–I never asked. Because it wasn’t my place to. That is hat closure does to you. It closes doors.

And a picture was painted–actually many. Some were spoken of. Others were thought about and buried. Only I knew I would dream of unknown faces for some time.

But time traveled fast. Very fast. We didn’t realize. Until I could not speak anymore. Neither could he. But we both wanted to. But we both knew what was happening. Every performance has to end somewhere. Especially phone calls. Especially those with strangers. Whom you knew in the past.

He asked me things–questions. And told me things. Stories. And I listened. And so did he.

I told him goodbye. I knew this was the end. Because I knew this level would never be reached again. Whatever magic happened that night needs to be preserved. The memory of a shadow–which has not given its own shape–has to be drawn, but I knew on my own terms. Because I could not mar it with the grim reality.

He hung up–because he was bored soon. Because on the runway–the end isn’t reached. Because the end is when the plane takes off.

So that was closure.

But I had a mark–on my hand. To remember. But it will soon fade. Just like the voice I heard and the conversations and the pictures. Because we were two people who wanted it that way. Because I am cursed to never love or have feelings. And his curse? I never asked.

So the next day–I saw my name, off from a chart. But it did tug at me for about a minute. Then it became a fading haunting idea. I am glad we were strangers. I also know our paths will never cross. I also know they probably did once before. I am glad because life is already still.

Home

What is home? Do most of us have one? Do we ever stop trying to find a home? Did the young orphan try to find his home in other people or empty hotel rooms where his mistresses would come and go? Or in shadows of people he thought he knew? Or in people he met at drab restaurants? Did he ever quit finding a home? Do we ever stop? Does the tired traveler ever get to his home? Or does he keep changing train-stations? Did he lose himself in the air?

Migratory birds.

At the party, someone asked, “Have you ever found that one place which you can call home?”

Everyone had something to say. Mostly because they had been to places. Mostly because they were empty. Mostly because they had nothing to share. All of them had found homes in residues and filters of cigarettes and wines and liquor. All of them had found homes in slot machines and airports and seas and mountains. In people and love and sorrow.

What did I have to show for my home?

I do not think I am meant to be here. I have no home–so I am not meant to find it, to search for it. I had a home once–in my own self. Until I messed up and now I am not allowed back in. People never let me in–and when they did, I never felt like staying. I never had any force entries–people were always scared and intimidated and I loved it. And home is lost to me just like I am lost to home. I am not lost just not found yet. And when and if I ever am found–I will get away from the fire-escape. Because I have no shadow. Because I am a shadow of someone not supposed to be here. Because I am the tide–it comes and it goes. I had a home once–and there was silence there. Because home is a sickness. It has no cure.

The room grew quiet for a second. Then the silence faded and there was music. And I danced because I had to escape, like most people. And like most of them–I knew it all.

Strangers

We are nothing more than strangers in this grand absurd world. Billions of strangers scattered away from each other, connected by threads and dots which occasionally collide with each other.  This is because we are all webbed in a complex relationship with each other–of strangeness. And often, like a crowd we gather and like a flock we fly yet we do not know each other.

We know not of the next person who stands close to us who is a stranger. And much more than them, we do not know anything about the stranger who lives in our heads. Or for that matter, we often refuse to recognize the person we see in the mirror–another stranger. Because all of us are billions of solitudes, intricately linked with everyone and no one. Transfixed into each other–outside of each other, in our bubbles.

From the womb of our own selves, we are birthed and put into the laps of other strangers and made to live in a void full of a commotion filled with others like us who are lost souls and shards of, perhaps our own selves.

She had that strange dream again that night after which she woke up rather perplexed. But she was not scared or unhappy, rather with a feeling of dry giddiness.

In the dream she stood in an eerie crowd, apparently lost or perhaps, found for the first time. The sky was a pale orange–the color it has before a storm.

She did not know who or what she was looking for. But she was wearing a long sleeveless white summer dress with small blue flowers. In this mad frenzy, she saw a tall figure standing not very far from her own self. But when she focused her gaze, the figure was not very close either.

Both their eyes met. She did not know the man at all. She did not know or recognize his face which was long, chiselled and pale. He was wearing a white buttoned shirt with white cotton pants.

His amber colored eyes carried an unknown lucid expression, a deep emotional perplexity. Her own dark blue eyes stared back at his with a brazen emptiness. They both stared at each other. Their eyes bore and dug into the souls of the other, and went beyond each other’s oblivion.

There was a growing longing in his eyes which could be deciphered from far and in hers, an ever evolving hunger. She seemed to be standing in a euphoric trance while he was clearly enthralled because his shadow in the pale sun grew. His eyes carried the looks of a very known but forgotten delirious desire while hers stood pale in contrast. His eyes had depth, while hers had pain.

And in that moment, there was enigma and there was ecstasy. And there was heat–for she felt it brush against her face, her body and her soul. And she could taste it on her tongue. And with her nose, she could smell this passionate heat. And she could hear a chorus of divine beings singing somewhere. And she could see him–close yet far.

And there they were–two strangers, stuck in a vortex of time which seemed to be dilating. They could not move ahead, nor remember anymore the meaning of anything. They were both strangers-stuck in a dream which seemed to be shared. They were lost for there was no thought anymore and words became silent and devoid of meaning or sound. The moment seemed frozen

He smiled from afar and the smile hit her like lightening–suddenly! She smiled back and he, for some reason, seemed puzzled. And they both looked at each other—as if inquiring about the other in silence and from no one, exploring the naked souls which were clearly visible, as if quizzing the other, as if feeling the momentary suspended bodies of the other.

She felt a rush, a passion, a tug and in the dream she felt her heart beat–all at the same time.

It seemed like they were both involved in a question less, motionless and disembodied physical touch of the other–an out of body intercourse! Or perhaps it was something else. Something which was much more alive, much more real, more vigorous. It kept on going for a time unknown.

Suddenly the crowd grew and there was a lot of push and pull. Someone pushed her and she was startled, the spell was broken. She had to balance herself at the edge of the road and she had broken eye contact with her Stranger. When she looked back up, he was gone.

Now her longing eyes searched for him. That is when she was suddenly hit was a morbid, dismal realization that he was a Stranger–the crowd was full of them. And among them all–they were two solitudes who had perhaps met–from a distance.

The feelings– were now thawed. The heart went back to being frozen–unheard of. A cold sigh escaped out of her mouth–a warm breath into the cold, placid and haunted frenzy. Everyone seemed to be engulfed in a sea of emptiness and they all suffocated without knowing. It was an asphyxia. Everyone stared at the road–she was still searching and she could see the outline of the horizon and a man walking away from the sun. Wearing a white shirt and white pants.

And she suddenly woke up.

 

 

 

It’s a Crack

The window from which you look outside-into the grey stillness of the fading away world, has a crack. A very small and subtle one. But it grows every minute and soon it will turn into a void. Do you see this crack? Does it remind you of yourself? Does it remind you of anyone else? Does it remind you of the tragedy that is the human world? The human world which has been taken over by the crowds of people. Banal. Does it remind you of the the rabid dog which goes around yelping into the bleak, dingy streets filled with darkness? Does it remind you of the transsexual romantic wandering looking for closure form the world? Does it remind you of anything? Anyone?

Because there is a crack in everything. And everything is in that crack.

Remember the time when the sparrow waded in the sky and looked down below and the only thought it had was about jumping down and killing itself…Only the tragedy was that it had wings and it could fly. You do not remember because you were not there. But next time you are, remember this. Maybe that is why the sparrow flies. To dive down so it can perish. Maybe it is not about the flight, the freedom–maybe it is chained because of its wings! You do not know–because you do not have any wings. And that is your tragedy.

Remember the time when an orphan boy roamed around in disarray, finding a home inside his house, bluffing with his own being. He adopted a stray dog, because he saw something familiar in it. Only, the dog got gunned down, shot once, shot twice, shot dead and cold. That is the tragedy of the orphan boy who now wanders the streets, finding a home outside his house. You do not remember, because you have a home–outside your home. And that is your tragedy.

Do you recall the time when the old woman forgot herself? She sat in a wooden chair looking at the window with the crack and simply forgot who she was. She could not remember her happiness or her sorrows or her longing or her empty shell. She forgot to smile. She forgot to cry. She only remembered that she has forgotten herself. That is her tragedy. Oh so you do recall! That is your tragedy.

Remember the poetry of the vagrant? How they talked about the happy worlds and the giddy dreams? And the tumult in those cryptic words? Silence in the dead language? Remember how the vagrant passed it on to no one–and was lost! That was his tragedy. You can not remember because it made no sense to you. And so the poetry of the world was lost once more–and that is your tragedy.

I have no more stories for you–except I do. But like a subtly cracked window–I will pretend I have nothing. Except I have an abyss. And your tragedy is that I see, I feel and I hear. But you cannot see me watching you, listening to you, feeling you. Because you do not perceive me–you cannot hear me, you cannot feel me. That, perhaps is the tragedy of those around me. And my tragedy is that I know it and understand it.

And the window has a crack. But it is just a crack. And it is a defiant one. And like all defiant things–it too shall break. And that is perhaps the biggest tragedies of all. The tragedy of all tragedies.

Shards

Shards of broken down time
Your hand in mine
A blackbird flew over the trees
The mountains hid the sunset
Your hand in mine
Glory days which are and were
Next would be dunes of sand
Buried deeply in a death sublime
The broken dreams were bigger
Than broken shadows
And promises which were kept alive
Your hand in mine
Till the day I change the course
Of the tides
Till the day I turn into a stone
Till the moment I cannot wait
And see the devil I have become
And the purity quite there
Hidden under the world that was never
—
My hand in mine
And eyes drifting away
Watching the blackbird turn grey

Burning Castles, Flying Mountains

Where do mountains fly to? And why do castles end up being burned? Questions which no one asks and no one has any answers of. Why do we build up so many questions inside our thick walls of reasons? Where do these questions come from? Why cant we answer them?

This is no story, rather this is an enigma–a puzzle which opens up to more puzzles and more of them. Do we know where we are heading towards and why and what pulls us? Who walks along with us and why don’t they stop? What do we call the millions of dead dreams that we have to carry on our shoulders? Where do we bury them and why cant we forget them?

What is the meaning—the meaning of having so many stars shining up in the night sky while so many dead burning castles in the utter daylight glare at the slowly turning world. Why are we given and bestowed presents and why are they swiftly taken away from us? The music we can hear…and create and fall prey to–where does it come from and why does it come from there?

Who are all the people we meet everyday and smile at and then they smile back so we make small talk and soon they turn into larger than life conversations–all to end up nowhere-because nowhere is as good a place to be. But who are the people and why do they surround us and why do they smile when they can not even recall the last time they had a good laugh? Who are those ghosts in the photographs that we see every time we look at our pictures—just happy, pretending and staring right back at us as if mocking us for being out their alive—but dead. Ghosts mocking at us for being dead.

SO who set the castles on fire? Why did the mountains take flight?

Words, words and more words. Meaningless and fickle and so powerful yet so fragile and so loathsome. Words. My enemies and my friends. Dreams, my bane and my sanity. Happiness–why wisdom. Wisdom–my quest. There is water, but no one is putting the fire out. The fire which burns the castles. How can they?

So here we are, still stuck at questions and still asking around if this is the right way or which is the right way, seldom bothered about why this is the right way…or why this is any way at all for that matter. And here we are, shell shocked because we know there is a way. There always is and we can never see our way around it. This way; o heaven and to hell, to betterment and to the worst of our fallacies, to music and to shade, to light and to dark….so many ways. Yet no shelter and no cure and no where to actually be.

I set the castles on fire. I made  the mountains fly..because no one else would. So the mountains fly and from wayy up in the sky they see the castles being burned down to ash and dust so that it will, travel with the wind towards the mountains and become them. And when they do, they will whisper to each other how there was no way but all there was—was fire and dust and someone who finally let them go. For all they held were empty secrets that no one bothered looking for.

Castles on fire, flying mountains—together we all catch the final breath.

Thus the world turned purple.